I, Jequon: Part One of the Nephilim Chronicles Read online

  Mercy plops down on the futon as if she’s accepted the fact she has to deal with me. “You’re exactly right. Cynthia was supposed to meet me for breakfast yesterday. She didn’t show—which isn’t all that unusual—but she didn’t call with an excuse, either, which is a first. I tried her cell a few times, left messages, got nothing. So I came to check on her. When she didn’t answer the door, I let myself in. That’s why I’m here. But you—you’re just some guy I’ve never seen before—showing up uninvited and wanting to talk to my friend who’s gone missing. Which makes me think—”

  “—that I have something to do with it.”

  “Do you?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “So you say.”

  “The same as you say you’re her best friend.”

  “So where do you think she is?”

  “You’re her friend, you tell me.”

  “What do you want with her?”

  “I need to ask her a few questions.”

  “Ask me your questions. I’ll pass them along when I find her.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Then you have a problem, because she’s not here.”

  “Seems to me you have the same problem.”

  “You’re offering to help?”

  I don’t answer.

  I didn’t have a choice in Sarajevo, but the girl in the alley put me over my non-O-Neg quota for the year. Looking at Mercy, it’s a damn shame.

  “You could be some kind of stalker for all I know.”

  “I’m not.”

  “So you claim.”

  “Do I look like a stalker to you?”

  “Maybe. I don’t think stalkers look a particular way. They could look like anybody.”

  “You don’t really believe I’m a stalker. Don’t fool yourself.”

  “So who are you then? Give me some details, Patrick. What kind of friend would I be?”

  “You’d be the kind of friend who wants to find her. Because I’m the kind of guy who can help you with that. That’s all you really need to know about me.”

  “Maybe I should just call the police and report her missing? Tell them some guy named Patrick came looking for her…tell them he might have something to do with her disappearance.”

  “You won’t call the police. All they’ll do is file a report and tell you to wait another twenty-four hours to make sure she doesn’t turn up. You feel comfortable waiting that long?”

  She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t need to. The worry’s written all over her face.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Mercy stands back up and peers outside between the slats of the blinds.

  “You think she’s in danger?”

  I ignore the question. Best friend or not, I doubt she knows anything about who Hernandez really is. Confirming her fears would only lead to more probing inquiries. What kind of danger? Who’s involved?

  Of course that’s assuming Mercy is, in fact, in the dark about what Hernandez does for a living. If she’s not, this conversation is about to get interesting.

  “You said Cynthia never mentioned my name?”

  “Never. And if she knew a guy who looks like you, I’m pretty sure she would’ve told me.”

  “She ever mention anyone by the name of Lucian?”

  I watch her eyes, ready for the deception.

  “No.” Her pupils dilate significantly. “She never mentioned a Lucian. I really love that name, though. It’s beautiful.”

  Smooth, I think to myself. Because I can’t call her out on this impressive bit of psychological camouflage without blowing my own cover.

  For a second, when I saw her pupils go wide like that, I thought I’d nailed her. It’s an obvious sign of recognition—like she was familiar with the somewhat uncommon name, Lucian, despite denying it. But widening of the pupils also occurs in concert with strong approval or attraction. So when she added that she really loved his name, it made my read inconclusive.

  The question is whether this was on purpose or not? Odds are, no. Very few people have any idea about these involuntary biological tells. Fewer still are trained in the art of camouflaging them. Aside from Lures, the only exceptions are professional poker players and operatives in government alphabet agencies. That’s about it. Mercy’s not a Lure, but could she be a government agent of some kind?

  If so—on U.S. soil, investigating a civilian—that would make her FBI. Which would explain her athletic physique and her confidence. But why? What in the world would the FBI want with Cynthia Hernandez? I can’t think of anything. Nephilim, Veingels, and vampires don’t conform to the Fed’s view of reality. Moulder wanted to believe—but not in us.

  “Something the matter?”

  I shake my head.

  “No. I was just curious. What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a bounty hunter.”

  I smile. For two reasons. One, it’s an occupation that fits the professional liar requirement just as well as gambler or federal agent does. And two, if she is lying, I have an easy way to call bullshit.

  “Did I say something funny?”

  “May I see your bond enforcement license.”

  “Sure.” Mercy takes out a plastic card from a billfold she retrieves from her purse. “Unlike you, I’ve got nothing to hide.” She hands it over. It looks legit. “Satisfied?”

  I nod and hand back her ID.

  “OK, so now what?”

  “Now I search her apartment.”

  “Good luck with that. I already have. There’s nothing. No bill statements, no receipts in the trash bin, and obviously no computer, either.”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as a little odd?”

  “If it were someone else, maybe. But Cynthia travels a lot. She pays all her bills online, and for anything that has to be physically mailed, she uses a scanning service. It’s called Earth Mail. I use the same one.”

  “I’ve heard of it… What about car titles? Her birth certificate? Property deeds?”

  “Safe deposit box at the bank. And no, I don’t have a key.”

  Time to try a different tack. “So how much will you lose if you can’t haul her in in on time?”

  Mercy rolls her eyes.

  “Nice try. But like I said, I’m here as a friend. Cynthia’s not skipping bail. As far as I know, she’s never even had a speeding ticket.”

  Nice try. Not: What are you talking about? More like she’s been rehearsing. Like she’s plugged all the holes in her story ahead of time.

  “You said Cynthia travels a lot. Where to?”

  “All over, but for the past year or so, it’s been Europe mostly. She’s a flight attendant.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure. Have a look in her closet. She still has her old uniforms from when she was with United.”

  I take her word for it. It would be a dumb thing to lie about. And hell, it sounds like Mercy’s telling the truth—at least the version Hernandez convinced her of. I suppose it’s not inconceivable a Lure would befriend a civilian. Mercy’s a few years older, and arguably more attractive; her head-turning looks would definitely be an asset at the clubs, or at the thoroughbred track up in Del Mar, or wherever else they like to be seen by men.

  But concerned friend or not, Mercy’s presence poses a serious problem. When Hernandez returns, she’s going to let her know about the suspicious guy who showed up at her apartment. Hernandez would know I’m Naphil from her description of me. And then she’d disappear again, alerting the SOJ I’m in San Diego in the process. I can’t have that.

  “So what are we going to do, Patrick? Just sit around and wait for her to show?”

  Perhaps she’s implying we pass the time horizontally? It’s tempting. As is the act we so often pair with sex. If I were to turn her, right here, right now, I wouldn’t have to worry about anything she might be hiding. Her whole reason for being would evolve. She’d become my Veingel…and loyal. Very loyal. To me and my kind for-as
-close-to-forever as any human could hope for.

  But it’s not going to happen. Codes and quotas aside, if Mercy is, in fact, completely ignorant of her friend’s secret life, then not only do I gain nothing in the way of useful information after turning her, but then Hernandez and the SOJ get tipped off by Mercy’s disappearance, and my best and only lead goes back into hiding.

  There’s only one smart play here: I need to vacate Hernandez’s apartment. ASAP. But I also need to keep Mercy close by to make sure she doesn’t communicate with her missing friend before I do. My best bet is to make her think it’s her idea. She is, after all, a woman. One hundred percent.

  “You do what you want. I’m outta here.”

  I give a mock salute and head for the door.

  “Whoa! What do you mean, you’re outta here? You said you were going to help me find Cynthia.”

  I unlock the deadbolt. “No. I said I can find Cynthia. I never agreed to help you find her.”

  “Wow. Kind of a dick move, Patrick.”

  “Yeah. It is. But you’re all grown up. I’m sure you can deal. Besides, she’ll turn up soon. Her flight probably got stuck somewhere in Europe. Mechanical trouble, or bad weather. And maybe she lost her cellphone and doesn’t have your number memorized, so she couldn’t call to cancel breakfast yesterday.”

  I turn the door knob about half way, counting on Mercy to call my bluff. She doesn’t disappoint.

  “Don’t go yet.”

  I let go of the knob. Half-turn to face her, all reluctant like.

  “Give me one good reason not to.”

  Mercy stands back up from the futon, straight and proud and tall, as if her silhouette alone should be reason enough. And let’s be honest, it is. Any other day but today.

  “Look, Cynthia has my number memorized. I know she does, because she had her purse stolen at a bar a few months ago—and her cellphone with it—but that didn’t stop her from drunk-dialing me to find a ride home. And I know she’s not in Europe because she called me yesterday as soon as she landed at the airport. Something’s wrong. I can feel it. So if you think you can find her, I’d appreciate your help.”

  I cross my arms and lean back against the wall like I’m weighing my options. Like I could go either way. “Alright, I’ll help you.” I ask her where she could last place Hernandez before getting stood up for breakfast yesterday morning.

  “The Hotel Del Coronado. Cynthia’s a fan of their piano bar. She wanted to catch up after her trip, but it was late and I was tired, so I suggested breakfast instead. She said okay, she’d meet me for omelets in OB in the morning, but she really wanted to unwind, so she’d go to The Del without me. She knows one of the bartenders, so I wasn’t concerned about her going there alone or anything. She’s practically a regular.”

  A regular. I bet.

  The Hotel Del, across the bay from downtown on Coronado Island, used to be the largest Nephilim safe house on the West Coast. Now, it’s a potential trap just like every other feeding club listed in our hacked database. On the one hand, it’d be great to warn others that it’s no longer safe. On the other hand, I might sacrifice my biggest advantage: The enemy still doesn’t know I’m in San Diego.

  No more hide-and-seek, Jequon. My words, my father’s voice. Reminding me who I am. “Let’s go.”

  “To Coronado?”

  “Where else.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Henrik stood over the Brotherhood’s scroll, closed his eyes, and inhaled of the mystery-infused air. It reeked of ancient-ness and of faraway geographies; an aroma of catacombs and bomb shelters and the basements of libraries.

  Beside the scroll was a legal-sized manila envelope. On the envelope, printed neatly in black marker, were the words: Read This First. Henrik ignored this. He’d come back to it later. He was eager to begin the translation.

  Not so eager, however, as to rush the process. Marshall McLuhan, the great scholar and communications theorist, wrote in his landmark book of the same title, THE MEDIUM IS THE MESSAGE. This medium—the parchment, the ink, the left-to-right clockwise-rolled scroll format—communicated a great deal.

  Especially the ink.

  A good ink, suitable for archival purposes, exhibited certain properties. First, it must be of high contrast and resist fading. Second, it must be resistant to manual erasure; substitutions and insertions should be impossible to hide. Third, an archival quality ink must not smudge or smear once dry, and dry time should be minimal. Nor should the ink be acidic; acid deteriorates the medium upon which it adheres, encouraging discoloration and flaking. Finally, resistance to bacteria and other hungry microbes is mandatory for an ink selected for its permanence. For these reasons, inks based on organic substances can be problematic. Which makes blood, for example, a very poor ink, indeed. This fact, however, hadn’t deterred the author of the SOJ’s scroll from composing in its telltale rusty brown.

  Henrik didn’t know what to make of this gruesome attribute. Messages in blood were for the walls at a murder scene, not religious texts. Unless you counted the Koran which the fallen Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein had printed in his own blood. Henrik did not.

  He turned his attention to the parchment itself. He recognized it as liturgical vellum, or gevil, a type of leather made from the skin of a deer or cow, of which many superficially similar scrolls were comprised. In and of itself, the gevil was unremarkable. The same could not be said, however, of the uneven pattern of deterioration and wear the document had experienced. This aspect was quite unique.

  The margins appeared much more brown in color than surfaces nearer to the actual script. In fact, signs of aging increased uniformly with distance as measured from the nearest quill stroke. Away from the margins, in the body of the text itself, each symbol glowed with its own halo of abnormally well-preserved writing surface. And because the individual characters and groupings of lines were spaced so closely together, these individual halos tended to overlap with their neighbors, combining to form one large swath of scroll in remarkable condition. Only the edges of the scroll, where no writing appeared—where no blood appeared—exhibited the cracking, discoloration, and flaking characteristic of other ancient vellum scrolls Henrik had examined. It was almost as if a preservative of some kind had been mixed with the blood, which, over time, had leeched out into the surrounding pores of the vellum to form a protective gradient. He’d never seen anything quite like it.

  Thus far, Henrik had ignored the actual language of the composition; a discipline which helped him to focus on the physical characteristics of the scroll. Now ready, a cursory glance identified the language as Biblical Hebrew. More specifically, a variant known as Golden Age Biblical Hebrew, a dialect familiar to a thousand other scholars. He frowned. The SOJ didn’t need his expertise to translate such a well-known language. A lowly grad student at some second-rate state school could’ve done the job.

  That was one red flag. But not the most troubling one. After all, the undecipherable passages probably appeared later in the text, still concealed in the rolled up portion of the scroll he’d yet to examine. Far more problematic was the fact Golden Age Biblical Hebrew went out of favor around 500 B.C.E. (around 2,500 years ago); it suggested an impossibly old age for the scroll, ranking it among the oldest vellum manuscripts ever discovered. If authentic, which it couldn’t possibly be, given the preponderance of suspect attributes.

  Setting aside for the moment the halos of mint-condition writing surface around the lettering, and the overall lack of uniform deterioration one would expect, the scroll appeared to be, at most, a couple centuries old. Certainly not millennia.

  A fake. And not a particularly clever one. There were methods for aging documents in a somewhat convincing manner. At the very least, a diligent forger might have gone to the trouble to obtain blank sheets of vellum manufactured close to the time period he intended to emulate; Henrik knew of several museum storage facilities where such minor artifacts were kept under a less than watchful eye. The amateurish con
artist responsible for the fraud hadn’t even bothered with this most elementary of ruses.

  “They fucking insult me.”

  He’d muttered this under his breath, no louder than a whisper. Someone heard him anyway.

  “What was that? Is there a problem? Are your accommodations lacking?”

  It was Rocky’s voice, piped-in via an overhead speaker. Henrik hadn’t noticed any microphones, but they must’ve hidden one somewhere close by so they could monitor him.

  “No. It’s nothing. Just clearing my throat.”

  “Good, good, good. Alrighty then. I’ll let you get back to work.”

  Henrik waited for the static coming through the intercom to die, indicating Rocky had ended the transmission. Then he opened the manila envelope and removed its contents: two photocopied pages and a typed letter. Now that he’d determined the scroll was phony, these items held a lot more interest.

  The photocopied pages turned out to be lab reports. The first, a carbon dating analysis, and the second, a DNA analysis which included some information on blood-type, similar to what forensics investigators might use to tie a suspect to a particular crime scene.

  He examined the carbon-dating analyses first. Two different samples had been tested. The first, a millimeter square of parchment; the second, remnants of blood scraped from “…undecipherable script from previously tested parchment scroll.” Henrik read through the sections describing testing conditions, machine calibration, and methodology until he found the estimate of the scroll’s age and just as important the age of the blood-ink used to compose it. If the ages of the two samples varied greatly from one another, it would be rather conclusive evidence the scroll was a forgery. As would an age less than the scroll’s manner and style of composition suggested.

  Well, that can’t be.

  Henrik blinked a few times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating and re-read the results. Both the parchment and the ink samples were between six and seven-thousand-years-old. In other words, one of the oldest examples of human writing ever discovered.

  Written language of any kind had been developed no more than 10,000 years ago in pre-Sumerian culture, the only surviving examples of which being cuneiform account ledgers carved into kiln-dried clay tablets. But this wasn’t clay. Short of the vacuum-sealing and UV-shielding techniques available today, Henrik couldn’t imagine parchment lasting for much more than two-to-three-thousand years, max. Let alone blood.